Wrapping Up Morocco

 Sunday March 22

Who We are

Mariam has been our leader, our mother, our sometimes-admonisher, and our guiding light. Born Indigenous (Amazigh) in Imlil in the Atlas Mountains, she had an in that few guides would have,  and could relate to the people that seem to make up most of the population outside the urban areas, and they could relate to her. Being a guide is a 24/7 job. Even on the long drives, she would be on the phone most of the time, making arrangements, ensuring our bookings were good, ordering our meals to be ready as we arrived, sorting out our rooms, and just generally making sure we had as smooth and as enriching a trip as could be had. 

Amal has been our amazing driver. She can manipulate that big vehicle in lanes I wouldn’t take a mini into. And no wonder — she used to be a long-distance truck driver, the only woman truck driver in Morocco, we’re told. And now she’s one of very few woman drivers in the Moroccan tourism industry. She doesn’t speak English, but she’s our friend. More than that, she’s our hero.

The maximum number of guests on Wild Women Expeditions is twelve. When we saw that the tour was full, we thought that meant there would be twelve of us. Why were we only five? We’re guessing that it’s because they have to book accommodations months in advance, so there’s a cutoff date, which they don’t seem to advertise. This may not be true of all of their tours, because I’ve seen “space available” just before a tour is set to embark. 

To travel with only five (mostly) strangers might not be a good thing in all cases. If there’s a grump in the group, you can’t really get away. In our case, we bonded like sisters. While we were five very different personalities, I think the overriding characteristic of all of us was a positive, adventurous attitude. Oh, we were not without complaints — that would have been annoying — but even in our complaints we stood together, a group support. 

I will miss my new sisters. We agreed that if we were to find a good adventure to share, we’d try to sign up together. 


Sue

Sue is the lone American in our group, but she does not fit the stereotype we Canadians tend to attribute to Americans. She’s quiet but strong, and she will assert herself when she needs to. (Response to a squatter: “That’s not going to happen!”)  I often catch her with a little smile on her face, which could be contemplative, or wise, or maybe she’s just smirking at our antics, I don’t know. She has eyes like Joni Mitchell’s, and sometimes I catch a glance that just slays me. She is a goddess.

Sue was a key participant in a community project that wrapped the Art Center in Sioux City, Iowa, in quilted fabric. Find Sue here


Vicki

Vicki’s a straight shooter. I mean, if she needs something, she lets it be known in no uncertain terms. She drinks coffee like no one I’ve ever met (and I thought John was the consummate coffee drinker!) She could write her own blog just about all the coffee she had on this trip, and I’ll never forget her exclamations: “DeLICIous.”  Vicki has a way of making you feel good about yourself, by paying attention, by caring for you, and by laughing her big belly laugh at all your jokes, the good ones and the bad.

Milica

Milica is our spark plug. Vibrant, curious, open. My first encounter with her was when Bettyanne and I were having a salad in the hotel in Casablanca. Not knowing who we were, she exclaimed, “Look at you two, having your salad!” and I thought she must be a rich, famous person by her demeanor. Her voice — that voice! — is so expressive and so exuberant, everyone we met was drawn to her; she was the one the nomads took to; she was the one the hotel people would light up for. All of Morocco fell in love with her. 

Bettyanne

Well. Bettyanne is one of the most patient, kind, and giving people I’ve ever met. She has energy and enthusiasm for everything that comes her way. Being with someone all day, every day for three weeks in a foreign and challenging environment is a true test of friendship, and we aced it. I could not ask for a better travel partner, and I’m grateful that I don’t have to say goodbye to her.

Travel Day

This morning, after our last high-carb Moroccan breakfast, we began the outward journey. We all had different departure times, of course. Vicki had booked an extra day, and was now questioning that decision, not willing to venture into the medina on her own (and who can blame her?) But Vicki, with time to kill, was there to see us off, to make sure we all got the right pre-arranged car (after some confusion). 

Breakfast. Since there's no longer pressure to get going, a couple of us didn't show up

Near the airport: dismal trees and barriers. A standing joke: several times during the trip, we'd drive by high walls topped by barbed wire. Marian would ask if we knew what that was, and we'd guess it was a prison. No, it was always an airport.

Marrakech airport was easy. The flight to Paris was easy. Arriving at Charles de Gaul Airport, not so easy. It should have been: catch the RER from the lower level of CDG and ride directly to a stop a ten-minute walk from our apartment in the Marais. 

But the RER airport line was not running. It took a while to figure out that there would be buses to take us into Paris. Asking directions to the bus, we were given a variety of indecipherable answers, most of them something about Gate 4, which to us meant a departure gate, and that made no sense. Turn left, then straight, then down, then left, then…. Even Ms Google, bless her, must have been trained by CDG staff to give confusing directions. “Take the escalator down,” she’d say, with no escalator in sight. By now it was getting dark. And I was quietly losing my cool. I almost never lose my cool! Anyhow, we finally realized that “Gate 4” meant “Door 4” of a particular terminal, and we found the bus, bought Navigo passes (the new way of getting around public transit in Paris), boarded with a hoard of other inconvenienced travellers, and rode to Saint Denis, where we followed the crowd down dark streets, hoping they knew what they were doing, to a Metro station. Having navigated the Metro before, I found us the right train, and we got off at Les Halles. In that shopping mall, we added another few thousand steps to our daily count before we found the exit, then made our way to our 6th floor apartment, where our patient host met us, thanks to communicating with him through WhatsApp. It had taken us three hours to get from the plane to our abode. 

We went for dinner in a dead-quiet nearby restaurant I’d found online, then walked down to Isle de la Cité, where I was excited to see Bettyanne’s reaction to Notre Dame, lit up at night. Turned out I was too excited, and mislabelled a smaller church, and she got highly excited — until I realized we hadn’t crossed the water, and this wasn’t Notre Dame. Damn! 

We're in Paris!!

Oh wow! Oh wow! But it's not Notre Dame

This! is Notre Dame

Anyhow, we were in Paris, and being in Paris is being in Paris! Paris!! Notre Dame square was all but deserted, about the only time we’d see it that way. We took the obligatory selfies and walked the ten minutes home to bed.